"
The boy tossed the missives down and ran off. Dorothy glanced over her
mail. There were several letters from her school friends, as she could
tell by the writing, and some from acquaintances in Dalton. Then this
one--who could it be from?--postmarked in a city from which she had never
received any mail, and the address written in a strange hand.
She opened this one first, and this is what she read:
"MY DEAR MISS DALE--This letter will undoubtedly
surprise you. It is a strange Christmas letter for me to have to
write. You may have forgotten my name, but I am the woman
detective whom you met in Boardman's. I hardly know how to pen
the words, but--_I put that ring into your bag_!
"I am a very wretched woman, but to make this confession to you
may, in a measure, at least, tend to soften the bitterness that
rankles in my heart.
"It would be useless for me to try to explain why I did you such
a wrong--perhaps if I could talk with you it would be different.
"Try to forgive me--try to know how wretched I am--sick, without
work and without means.
"But even pity seems bitter to me now--life has all gone wrong,
and only the thought of your innocent face, and the black guilt
I tried to fasten on you, has given me the strength to write
this letter.
"Ah, what a mockery Christmas is to the unfortunate!
"Yours, in sorrow,
"LOUISE DEARING.
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